


Heroes, Likely and Otherwise

by TrueNorth



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Cheerful Khajiit Mercenary, INIGO (mod), Interesting NPCs (mod), M/M, Main Quest Shenanigans, Mod it 'til it crashes, Nonplussed Breton Dragonborn, Sassy Altmer Bladebinder, Side Quest Shenanigans, Slash, They Fight Crime!, also dragons, making it up as I go, slow-building romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3132449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueNorth/pseuds/TrueNorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[On Hiatus]<br/>An amnesiac whose past is lost to time and whose future is written outside of it.  A sellsword whose life is not his own, owed to the man he tried to murder in the throes of skooma addiction.  A former circus performer whose tongue is sharper than the blades he binds, hiding deeper wounds behind warpaint and charm.  Together, these unlikely heroes must save the world.</p><p>...eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Meal and an Inn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavily-embellished scenes from my modded Skyrim roleplay. [Rumarin](http://youtu.be/pCg0f3FtC9c) is from the Interesting NPCs mod created by Kris Takahashi and voiced by Jay33721. [Inigo](http://youtu.be/YMNN_WGcvFQ) (along with Mr. Dragonfly) is from the INIGO v2.0 mod created and voiced by Gary Hesketh, aka smartbluecat. May contain graphic content in later chapters. Spoilers for the main quest, Inigo's quest and Rumarin's personal quest.

“I noticed you wear war paint,” the Breton said after a few absent spoonfuls of his horker and ash yam stew.  “Why the lines under the eyes?”

Rumarin paused, bottle of mead halfway to his lips.  It was only the third conversation that he’d had directly with Rumarin after their initial meeting ( _“I’m Gawain Kingsfoil, and this is my good friend, Inigo.  If you’d like to come with us, we could use your help.”_ ) and when he’d grabbed Rumarin’s arm in the back room of The White Phial.  ( _“Let it go.”  “After all that, he expected us to risk our lives for just five sep-!”  “He’s_ dying, _Rumarin.  Let it go.”_ ).

“Well, I was going to go for something more subtle,” Rumarin quipped, words springing almost unbidden to his lips, “like a wyvern mounting a cliff racer, but I thought that people might misinterpret the analogy.”  Gawain blinked at him inscrutably, but did not otherwise react.  Likewise, the only reaction from the oddly-colored Khajiit across the table was to continue inhaling his stew as if it were his first meal in weeks.  That wasn’t good.  He had to up the ante.  “And besides, there wasn’t enough room on my groin to begin with.  So, I painted my face instead.”  A long draw from the mead bottle served as a dramatic pause, long enough to hear Inigo’s amused snort as he lifted the dregs of the bowl to his muzzle.  “A dash under the eyes helps with the glare,” Rumarin concluded.  “So does a hood.”

“What about in general?”  If Gawain had noticed that he hadn’t really answered the question, he gave no sign of it.  He just kept _looking_ at Rumarin with those wide, Falkreath-green eyes.  He seemed so small and somber that Rumarin sometimes had difficulties remembering that he had torn a path through shambling draugr with a spiked war pick not four hours earlier, sweat and corpse dust painting his pale face like Rumarin’s own stripes.  “Do you know of any significance to war paint?”

 _Just conversation,_ Rumarin thought to himself.  This was just idle, getting-to-know-you chit chat over dinner at Candlehearth Hall, a meal and an inn that cost more than half of the day’s takings just for one night.  ( _“It’s a hundred fifty for the room, spare beds for the cat and the elf are fifty more apiece.  You want food, that’s extra.  Don’t like it, there’s the door.”_ )  His next gulp of the absurdly-overpriced mead was loud in his pointed ears, louder than the Dunmer bard strumming her lute across the main hall, louder than the deadly snowstorm that howled across Windhelm, swallowing the city whole.

He had to make Gawain laugh.  He _had_ to.

“Well, in some parts of Tamriel, war paint is seen as a tribal mark for warriors.”  Rumarin’s voice was precise in its casualness, a slow build to a payoff he hadn’t thought up yet.  “In others, it can be a family crest, an artistic splash, or just too much makeup.  

“Of course,” Rumarin tilted his bottle, his eyebrow, his smile, “excessive makeup is traditionally a sign that you will service wealthy nobles for gold.”  Hand raised, eyes closed, head turned slightly away (red stripes of paint burning on his cheekbones).  “And before you ask, my price is one hundred septims and no kissing on the mouth.”  Eyes to the ceiling, a wry twist to his voice.  “...okay, _maybe_ once or twice, but no tongue!”

Inigo lowered his bowl and barked a laugh, a sharp “Hah!” followed immediately by a burp.  Rumarin was more gratified, though, by the brief upward quirk to the line of Gawain’s full mouth.  

“Is that a jest?” he asked in his usual gravel-bed tone; from anyone else, Rumarin would have thought it almost flirtatious.  “Or do you fancy other males?”

Rumarin shifted slightly in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.  He was too close, too close to _something_ with his dark hair and pale skin and fearless courage and tireless courtesy and excessive generosity and green, green eyes than Rumarin was willing to stand.  The Altmer scoffed, tossing his head.  “Males, females, beasts, goats,” he said airily, skipping the conversation away like a stone over a pond.  “The list goes on and on.  Although I confess that I don’t like billies.  You aren’t a billy, are you?  Well, if you are, I’ll still do it, but it’ll cost you extra.”

And there, like the flash of sunlight at the long-sought exit of a cave, was a smile.  “A High Elf with a sense of humor,” Gawain said, the corners of his eyes crinkling.  “I like you.”

“Good,” Rumarin said, sitting back in his chair and loftily swirling his mead as if it were the finest Alto wine.  A secret sense of relief poured gloriously down his spine.  “Skyrim could use more of it.  Humor _and_ sense.”  

He still had it, whatever it was.  He hadn’t lost it, lost this small and unsteady start, the first good thing he’d had in months, maybe even _years_.

For here, for now, he was safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarity's sake, an explanation: in my most recent Skyrim playthrough, I'm using alternate start mods as well as the backstory provided by the fantastic INIGO mod that gives Inigo and the PC a shared history. In this story, Gawain Kingsfoil was once a mercenary paired with Inigo, a Khajiit adventurer with dark blue fur, on a series of jobs. Though they quickly became friends, Inigo was severely addicted to skooma at the time and ended up shooting Gawain in the head with an arrow to claim his share of the payment. Gawain survived and eventually recovered, but with complete memory loss, not even sure of his name. Meanwhile, consumed with grief and guilt, Inigo kicked the skooma habit and sought out his friend, pledging to either repay his debt to Gawain with the blood of his enemies, or die defending him. He's been clean and sober ever since.
> 
> Gawain is indeed the Dragonborn, but he wasn't at Helgen when Alduin attacked; by that point, he'd already been in Skyrim for months. This story picks up shortly after our heroes recruit the best follower in the Interesting NPCs mod: Rumarin, "professional adventurer, bladebinder and graverobber." Rumarin joins their party just outside of Windhelm while Gawain and Inigo are on their way to find the fabled White Phial for Nurelion. 
> 
> Further adventures will be written and posted as I play through the game, so there should be some loose connections between each chapter, but outside of the main quest, I don't have much of a plot arc in mind. Also, I have several mods installed that alter pretty much everything in Skyrim at this point, so if you think that something I mention is different from the vanilla game, you're most likely right. This is mostly an exercise in writing for fun after a hiatus of several years, so apologies in advance for syntaxical awkwardness and for probably getting Rumarin completely wrong (please don't hate me, Mr. Takahashi, your mod is brilliant and wonderful). 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


	2. Potions and Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a hero isn't always about questing and slaying. Sometimes, it's about the pitching of tents and the gathering of wood, about cooking and eating and washing, about sharing fire and and talk and time beneath a starry sky.
> 
> This is a story about the latter.

“Let’s make camp.”

It didn’t sound like a suggestion, and even if it had been, Rumarin was ill-inclined to disagree.  The sun had just set, stealing away what little warmth had graced the Whiterun plains, and Rorikstead was still another hour’s ride to the west.  

They had been fortunate enough to sleep in inns thus far, humble establishments in humbler villages.  Pickings were slim, however; the only action they’d seen on their trek across Eastmarch was from a couple of mangy wolves and a lone cave bear.  The bear’s meat and hide had fetched just over two hundred septims at Darkwater Crossing, but with rooms at fifty septims a night, board not included, their gold reserves dwindled.  Sleeping rough was cold and unpleasant and likely to invite disease, but Rumarin couldn’t deny that it was cheap.

He slid off of the old bay nag that Urundil had foisted off on him as he left Windhelm, muscles aching in many, many places.  “Go on, damn horse,” he said, shoving irritably at her rump, and she trundled off to placidly graze with Queen Alfsigr and Artax.  At this rate, “Damn Horse” would end up being her name.  Suited her better than “Petunia,” at least.

His companions were already busy; Inigo was unpacking the tent furs from the saddlebags as Gawain headed off towards the distant treeline, wood axe slung over his broad shoulder.  Rumarin hadn’t even realized that he’d been following until Inigo called out to him.  “Where are you going, my friend?”

Rumarin stopped, blinked, and looked back.  The Khajiit didn’t look angry or upset, just confused.  “I, uh, I thought I’d help Gawain with the… things.”

Inigo smiled, whiskers curving along with his mouth.  “I am sure that Gawain would appreciate the gesture,” he said, “but we only have the one axe for wood-cutting.  If you still feel like helping, I could use another pair of hands in putting up the tents.”

Rumarin looked back to see Gawain now far in the distance, nearly lost in the shadows of the trees.  It made sense, really.  With only one axe between them, he’d only get in the way.  “Right.  Too many lumberjacks spoil the… lumber, I suppose.  All right, pitching tents.  This should be easy, right?”

And surprisingly enough, it was.  Inigo quickly picked up on Rumarin’s lack of knowledge (unrolling a bedroll being the Altmer’s only prior experience in roughing it) and was actually a very good teacher.  By the time Gawain returned to camp, arms laden with firewood, Rumarin had learned how to pound tent pegs at a secure angle, tie a solid knot, scrape turf clean for safe campfires, and mount a simple trellis for the cooking pot.

“That was fast,” Gawain said, piling the wood to the side of the stone-lined circle.  “Well done.”

“The work goes much faster with company, and even more so when the company has opposable thumbs,” Inigo replied, gingerly placing a large, aerated jar next to his bedroll, a blue dartwing buzzing gently behind the glass.  “Mr. Dragonfly is an excellent conversationalist, but that is sadly the extent of his talents.”

“Oh, well, it was nothing,” Rumarin said with an airy, uncaring lilt, but even as the last light of the gloaming faded from the horizon, he felt warm before Gawain’s flames of magicka ever touched the kindling.

 

* * *

 

It was like a ritual, Rumarin thought.  After two bowls each of Gawain’s hunter stew ( _“Delicious as always, my friend!  Are all Bretons as naturally good at cooking as they are at magic?”  “I don’t know, Inigo.  Let me get back to you after I’ve met every Breton.”_ ) and washing up the few dishes in the nearby brook ( _“I cooked, so you two get dish duty.  Hop to.”  “...I don’t know, that sounds an awful lot like work.”  “But many hands will make it light.  Come, my friend.”  “All right, all right.”_ ), the three adventurers settled around the crackling fire, Rumarin stitching up a few new arrow-holes in his cloak, Inigo talking softly to the dartwing in the jar, and Gawain…

Gawain had rolled out his bedroll and spread his fur cloak over it.  In a rough semicircle, he placed a leather satchel, an empty glass jar, a waterskin, a full bottle of wine, and a solid stone mortar and pestle.  To one side, he set the small bound journal that he kept in his breast pocket, along with a charcoal pencil.  Finally, he took off his belts, bracers, and boots, keeping his new blade at arm’s reach, before settling cross-legged onto the furs.  Deft hands dipped into the satchel, drawing out two or three plants, seemingly at random, and placing them into the mortar before softly and thoroughly grinding them together into a fine powder.  Gawain then placed the pestle aside, poured a small measure of water into the jar, and tipped the plant mixture in after it.  He capped the jar, shook it five times (always five), uncapped it, and drank.

Immediately, Gawain’s face contorted in what Rumarin could only call surprised disgust, and he spat into the dirt at his side, taking a sip instead directly from the wine bottle.  He dashed out the dregs of the jar, wrote a line or two in his journal, picked a new batch of flora and began the entire process again, always the same steps each time.  It was… well, it was weird, but also oddly fascinating.  Rumarin’s eyes kept darting from his stitch-work over to Gawain, lingering longer and longer each time, but if the other man took offense at his new-found audience, he gave no sign of it.

“Do not worry about Gawain, my friend,” Inigo said, startling Rumarin.  The sewing needle nicked his finger.  “Trying out new potions is therapeutic for him.  And occasionally lucrative.”

Gawain’s head lifted from his mortar, Falkreath-green eyes blinking at Rumarin.  “Does it bother you?”  He didn’t sound combative, or even defensive.  If anything, he seemed _concerned_ that his hobby was potentially discomforting Rumarin.

Like he said, _weird_.

“No, not at all!” Rumarin said, waving a hand with a grin, hoping that the warmth on his face was only from the fire.  “Not in the slightest.  I’ve seen people do stranger things to unwind.  I myself tend to juggle in the extremis of boredom.”

“Juggle what?”

“Oh, whatever comes to hand.  Rocks, shells, flaming torches, Daedric war axes.  The usual.”

Gawain smiled.  It was a small thing, barely touching the corners of his lips, but this time, it lingered, and the warmth in Rumarin’s chest returned.

“I have found writing to be a stress reliever,” Inigo said across the fire, turning away from his pet.  “Not to mention good mental exercise.  I tried keeping a journal once, but… it was hard to focus on sometimes.”  A brief flash of something dark and bitter crossed his furry face before it suddenly lightened again.  “Maybe I should try a diary this time, yes?”

“You wrote that book,” Gawain said, looking down at his work again.  The smile was still there.  “ _Inigo the Brave_.  Why don’t you read it to Rumarin?  He hasn’t heard it yet.”

“An autobiography?”  Rumarin cocked a lone eyebrow.

“Eh, not quite.  More of a fictional exercise than anything else, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’m game.”  Looping a knot into the waxed thread, Rumarin pulled it tight and bit off the end.  There.  Fixed.

“Okay,” Inigo said, digging into his backpack and pulling out a slim volume.  “But remember, I am not a professional writer.”

Rumarin spread the cloak over his legs and laid back on the bedroll, stretching out his still-sore muscles.  “I’ll bear that in mind.  Ready when you are, Inigo.”

“I hope you like it.”  Inigo opened the book and cleared his throat dramatically.  “ _Inigo the Brave_ , a tale suitable for any gender and race at any time.”  He licked the leathery pad of his thumb and turned the page.

> One day, Inigo was walking through his spider farm, minding his own business, when he smelled something was wrong.  His nose was the best in the land, so he followed it to a nearby cave, where he found a beautiful woman of unspecified race crying. 
> 
> ‘What’s wrong?’ said Inigo.

The Khajiit’s voice suddenly cracked into a creaky falsetto. 

>  ' _A smelly troll stole my sister,_ ’ said the radiant woman.  ‘ _Can you help me?  Please bring her back._ ’ 
> 
> Inigo looked into the dark cave, then into the eyes of the woman.  ‘If she is still alive, I will bring your sister back.’ 
> 
> ‘ _Thank you!_ ’ wept the woman, and kissed him!  Inigo entered the cave, bow in hand.

Rumarin laughed and pillowed his head on his hands, looking up at the stars that seemed so much brighter in Skyrim.  Inigo read his adventure tale three times that night, mostly because Rumarin’s choices from the first two times ended up with the hero eaten by a troll and beheaded by a draugr, respectively, and Gawain vanished for about ten seconds after swallowing a mixture of nirnroot and vampire dust, but apart from that, it was a regular, uneventful, very good night.

The first, Rumarin hoped, of many.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another lot of nothing in this chapter, just me trying to feel out everyone's voices and explore Rumarin's inner workings for a bit. He's a fascinating character with a lot of layers, and I think that the mod makers do a fantastic job of letting that all shine through. Next chapter I write will have some action, though, I promise.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


	3. An Ounce of Prevention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes are not as prepared as they should have been, with unfortunately dire consequences.

“Victory is ours!  I’ve always wanted to say that.”

After a quick scan of the icy cave to verify that, yes, they were all in fact dead, Rumarin indulged in a satisfied smirk and rolled the bloodied body at his feet onto its back with his boot.  Stooping, he rifled the pockets of the black robe, coming up with a sprig of some flower or other, a handful of septims, a sacrificial dagger of some sort and… was that human flesh?  Disgusted, Rumarin dropped the red mass of muscle and hastily made his way back across the cavern, wiping his hand on his robes.  Necromancers made for nasty business.

As he retraced his steps back to the central chamber, Rumarin thumbed off the wax cap of the last vial in his pouch and knocked back the contents, shuddering as the sweet liquid warmed and healed him from the inside out.  When brewing potions for public consumption, Gawain always used wine or mead instead of water to mask the taste of the ingredients, and Rumarin was thankful that he didn’t have to hold his nose as he drank healing potions anymore.  Spotting his companions across the chamber, he jogged gingerly over the iced stone to meet them, Inigo’s voice growing louder as he drew near.

“...looks painful.  Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine, Inigo.  Let’s just get out of here.”  Gawain’s gravel-bed voice was lower than usual, his words clipped and abrupt.  One of his arms crossed his chest to better press a hand against his side.

“Are you sure?”  The Khajiit’s ears flattened back in concern.  “That looks rather nasty.  You should heal yourself, my friend.”

“You think I haven’t been _trying_?”  Gawain snapped. The man was practically gritting his teeth, like he was pained or… angry.  Gawain was actually _angry_.  Rumarin rubbed the back of his neck, simultaneously worried about whatever had incensed their fearless leader and, honestly, a bit relieved.  It was good to know that Gawain was actually a flesh-and-blood, squishy-feelings mortal.  For a while, Rumarin had suspected that he was some sort of Daedric construct.

“What’s going on?” Rumarin asked.  Upon hearing Rumarin, Gawain sighed, shoulders slumping as if his quickly-draining anger had been all that was keeping them up.  Carefully, the man peeled his hand away from his side and, oh sweet Mara, his palm was solid red from heel to fingertip.  A dark, clotting gash had been cut through Gawain’s light armor to the flesh beneath, padded leather stained nearly black with blood.  “Stendarr’s mercy!” said Rumarin, suddenly queasy.  “What happened?”

“One of them got me,” Gawain replied, sounding much more like himself, if a bit strained.  He peered at his own wound, wincing as he did.  “I think the axe was coated with something that affected my magicka.  I haven’t been able to cast anything since the hit, and I’m all out of healing potions.”

“As am I,”said Inigo, turning to Rumarin.  “You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you, my friend?”

The sweet dregs of the healing potion were suddenly ashes in Rumarin’s mouth.  Suddenly mute, he could only shake his head.  Gawain sighed again, resigned.  “No matter.  I’ve got everything I need to throw something together in Allie’s saddlebags.  It’ll be fine.  You all right, Rumarin?”

“F-Fine.  Dandy, even.”

“Good.  Then let’s get out of here and get back to town.  Brina said there was a storm coming.”

“You lead, I follow,” Inigo replied.  “Unless, of course, you would like me to carry you?  Or not!”  Both clawed hands came up at Gawain’s pointed glare.  “But you can lean on me, yes?  Good.  Let us go.”

Turning, Gawain grabbed a torch from its sconce with his free hand and led their way back out of the cave, grudgingly balanced by Inigo’s steady hand at his elbow.  Rumarin took up the rear, stuffing his pack with any useful-looking mosses and cursing himself for a thrice-damned fool.  What good was a High Elf, one of a people famed for their affinity with magic, who couldn’t learn any spells besides two for conjuring weapons?  Who couldn't even learn something as simple as a basic healing spell?   _Not much,_ he thought.   _Not bloody well much._

 

* * *

 

The weather was already worsening as they exited the cave onto the ice plains of the Pale, snows dyed pink in the setting sun.  The horses clustered together near the cave’s mouth, huddled close for warmth.  A line of stormclouds loomed on the horizon, frigid winds whipping at Rumarin’s frost-guarded mage robes and new bearskin cloak.  _(“Here.  This is yours.”  “Mine?  Where did you get this?”  “I made it.”  “You_ made _it.  And you’re_ giving _it to me?  The pelt alone has to be worth-”  “We’re heading into the Pale tomorrow, Rumarin.  That kind of cold can be deadly without the proper gear.  Wear it.  Please?”  “...alright.  Thanks.”  “Don’t mention it.”)_

“Damn!” Gawain said, voice almost drowned out by the approaching gale.  “I didn’t know it was this late.  Come on, Dawnstar’s not too far, I think.  We’ll ride straight back and buy our potions at Frida’s.  Inigo, can you help me onto-?”  He stopped short, staring off into the middle distance as if transfixed.

“What is it, my-?”

“Shh!”  Gawain held up his free hand.  “Do you hear that?”

Rumarin looked out across the frozen expanse, eyes stinging, ears straining.  All he could hear was the wind and… was that a flapping sound?  What on Nirn could be-?

“Dragon!”  Inigo’s shout rose above the wind as he grabbed both of his companions and pulled them down into the snow, just as an enormous gout of flame melted the snow inches from Rumarin’s face.  He looked up to see a scaly red underbelly swooping away on great leathery wings, only to bank sharply around and open its razor-toothed maw, roaring in challenge.  The horses screamed in fear and scattered, bolting in all directions.

“Dragon!” Rumarin echoed dumbly.  It was _huge_!  More to the point, it was _real_!  A real _dragon_!   _Hide_ , his numbed mind screamed at him.  They had to _hide_.  “Quick, back into the cave!”  He struggled to his feet, glancing over to see Inigo and an empty, red patch in the snow.  “Gawain?”  Shading his eyes against the setting sun’s glare, he spotted the dragon banking towards the coastline, and a small, lone figure with an unslung bow running doggedly after.  “Gawain!” Rumarin shouted, voice hoarse.  “The cave!”

“No time!”  Gawain called back, voice faint.  “It’s headed for Dawnstar!  Hurry!”

Dawnstar, hold capital of the Pale, was little more than an overgrown mining town made up of thatch-roofed wooden structures.  They didn’t have an army.  They didn’t even have a wall.  If the dragon attacked Dawnstar, the entire town would burn like so much tinder.  (And so would Gawain.)  Rumarin glanced over at Inigo, who met his gaze before nodding briefly, unslinging his own bow and giving chase.

“...oh, gods damn it all!”  Rumarin’s leather boots skidded for purchase, kicking up snow as he flung himself towards certain, fiery, sharp-fanged doom.  Almost unconsciously, he reached out with his hand and one of his two spells, coaxing from the planes of Oblivion a pale, shimmering bow and quiver.  Nocking a bound arrow and drawing it to his ear, he distantly heard himself say “Come down here, you great leathery bag of hot air!” as he let it loose.

Rumarin’s spoken barb likely went unheard, but his magical barb found its mark, sticking into the dragon’s spiked tail.  It roared and veered around, only to be hit with a physical arrow from Inigo’s bow.  “You are target practice!” Inigo shouted defiantly, fitting another arrow to the string.  Rumarin took aim again, hand shaking slightly as he traced the dragon’s flight path, when a third voice sounded, drowning out even the wind.

**“YOL!”**

A bright ball of flame burst from Gawain’s lips, hitting the creature fully in the face with its force!  Shaking its huge head, the dragon snarled and banked around, flapping in place to steady itself.  Too busy to respond to his comrade _breathing fire at a dragon_ , Rumarin got in one more shot with his bound bow before he himself was engulfed by dragonflame.  The heat was tremendous, intense and all-encompassing.  Instinctively, he threw himself to the side and rolled in the snow, dousing any still-smoking embers.  In some distant corner of his panicked mind, he hoped that he still had his eyebrows.

By the time Rumarin had clambered to his feet, the dragon had landed with a ground-shaking impact, lashing its tail at Inigo and snapping its jaws at Gawain.  The Breton shouted at the thing again and a sudden gust of wind pushed the dragon’s head aside, exposing its neck to Gawain’s blade.  It roared and snapped again, catching the man’s arm and making his next shout one of pain.  Now presented with a stationary target, Rumarin loosed shot after shot, glowing arrows sticking out between the dragon’s scales.  He wasn’t even certain that he was hurting the damn thing, but if he could just distract it…

“Over here, you overgrown lizard!” Rumarin yelled, letting his conjured arrows fly.

Maybe that had helped.  Maybe it hadn’t.  But regardless of Rumarin’s contributions, he could only stare open-mouthed at the result.  

Grabbing onto one of the dragon’s horns, Gawain threw himself up onto the top of its head, clinging for dear life with one hand as the beast thrashed and roared, trying to toss him off.  With the other hand, he swung his sword around, blade pointed down, gripped the handle tightly, and plunged it straight into the dragon’s eye!  The dragon screamed and writhed, making Rumarin’s ears ring, but even he could tell that these were death throes.  Finally, with a heavy thud, the beast’s great head collapsed onto the snow and did not rise again. 

Rumarin started breathing again (unsure of when he had stopped), and released his bow to disappear into the aether, jogging forward as his friend slid off of the dragon’s head.  “We did it!” Rumarin crowed, grinning like a madman.  He felt a bit like a madman.  “You _did_ it!  That was _amazing_!  That was-!"  He skidded to a stop as, behind Gawain, the dragon’s flesh began to burn.  It rose from the corpse like great flakes of ash before coalescing into streams of what Rumarin could only call pure magicka, streaming from the body in a mighty wind… _right into Gawain_.  

The Breton held completely still as his small frame absorbed all of it, all that color and light and boundless power, until all that was left was a bare, bleached dragon skeleton and one lone man.  He was covered in blood, a mist of it scattered in drops across his face, a river running down his right arm, a cascade pouring down his left side.  Rumarin could see his chest rise and fall with labored breaths as those Falkreath-green eyes looked right at him.  Or through him.

“You know, I think I could get used to this ‘absorbing souls’ perversion of nature that you do.”  Inigo drew up next to Rumarin, sheathing his sword and smiling.  “It is freaky, but very impressive.”  The smile faded as Gawain’s expression did not change.  “Are you alright, my friend?”

Gawain shook his head, the distance fading from his eyes as he focused on the pair of them.  He smiled, weakly, and took a step forward.  Then another.  Then, before either one could dart forward to catch him, his knees buckled under and left him to lay, face down and unconscious, in the slowly-reddening snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the action that I promised! Finally, I get to make good on that "Graphic Depictions of Violence" tag. It's not that bad, as action sequences go, but better safe than sorry, hey? If only Gawain had taken that advice...
> 
> Questions, comments and/or suggestions welcome! Hope you enjoy!


	4. A Pound of Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain hovers near death. Inigo vanishes into the storm. Rumarin throws a book, makes tea, and thinks outside the leather pouch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, Gawain Kingsfoil [looks](http://i.imgur.com/kdRYkgU.png) [like](http://i.imgur.com/DHEwIPr.png) [this](http://i.imgur.com/aXixRBY.png).  

Rumarin was numb, in a way that had very little to do with the snowstorm.  His hands were numb as he ran to Gawain’s prone body and rolled him over, helping to hoist him into Inigo’s waiting arms.  His face was numb as they retraced their step back to their packs at the mouth of the cave, sheltering under the overhang at its mouth.  His mind was numb as he stacked firewood and kindling on the stone floor, striking flint against steel until enough flame arose to lick at the wood.  Then, only then, looking over at Gawain’s still form, stripped to the waist on a bedroll as Inigo cleaned and bound his wounds, did he thaw enough to speak.

“...the _hell_ was that, Inigo?  I mean… the hell _was_ that?  With the dragon, and the breathing fire, and _Gawain_ breathing fire!  And the… whooshy bright thing when it died!  What in the name of all the gods?”

Inigo tied off the last knot of cloth bandage and drew a snow bear pelt over Gawain.  “Ah, that,” he said casually, folding a wolf skin and sliding it under Gawain’s head.  The Breton did not stir, as still as death.  “I forget that you have not been traveling with us for very long.  You have heard tales of the Dragonborn, yes?”

“Of course I have; you can’t walk into an inn these days without some bard warbling on about it.”  Numb as it was, something clicked in Rumarin’s head.  “Wait, you mean to say that Gawain- _our_ Gawain- is some kind of bloody great Nord hero?”

“I do, actually.”

“Oh.  That… that does make a lot of sense, in hindsight.”  Looking back on his admittedly-short time adventuring with the pair, Rumarin had to admit that Gawain’s willingness to solve people’s problems had little to do with the amount of money offered.  He seemed to err on the side of caution and kindness, neither giving nor taking offense, the type of man who would hack the head from a bandit chief and then use the bounty to buy every blossom in a poor flower girl’s basket.  If nothing else, that certainly said ‘hero’ a lot louder than ‘sellsword.’  “And you didn’t think to tell me about it?  A heads-up would have been grand.  ‘Good job today, Rumarin, and oh, by the way, I eat dragon souls for a living.’”

Inigo smiled, but it was a strained thing as he looked out into the blowing snow.  “It is not really something that Gawain likes to advertise, my friend.  He prefers to keep a low profile.”

Rumarin sat back on the ground, running his hands over his thawing face and smudging the painted stripes.  “Yes, I suppose he would,” he said to himself, looking over at Gawain.  The other man’s profile was definitely low, being stretched out on the ground as he was under a pile of furs.  And pale.  Very pale.  “So, what’s the plan?”

Inigo rubbed his hands on his thighs before rising to his feet, stalking back and forth across the cave entrance.  Rumarin scooted back, closer to Gawain and out of the range of the Khajiit’s lashing tail.  “Hmm,” Inigo said aloud, scratching his muttonchops.  “Maybe one of us could head back to Dawnstar?  Bring back potions or a healer?”

“Right.”  Rumarin looked out at the expanse of blinding, horizonless white.  “And which way was Dawnstar, again?”

“...fair enough.”  Inigo crossed his arms over his chest, clearly uncomfortable with his sudden promotion to decision-maker.  “We could go and find the horses, at least.  They will not last long alone in this storm.  And Gawain did say that he had some things in the saddlebags, yes?”

“That could work,” Rumarin conceded.

“Excellent!  I shall be as quick as I can!”  With a resolute nod, Inigo bent to shrug on his pack.

“Wait, you’re going?  What about me?”

“Gawain will need someone to stay with him.”  Inigo threw his bear cloak over his shoulders, fastening the clasps.  “To keep him warm and dry, and make sure that he is not bleeding through his bandages.”

“But… but what if he wakes up?” Rumarin glanced down at Gawain, who hadn’t so much as shifted the entire time.  “He’ll want to see a friendly face after, you know.  All that.”

Pulling on thick gloves, Inigo fixed the Altmer with steady orange eyes.  “That he will,” he said.  “And lucky for him, a friendly face is just what he will see.  Besides, which of us has an extra layer of fur and can see in the dark?”

“Ah.  Good point.”

Inigo flattened his ears and pulled on his hood.  “Stay awake, keep him warm.  And if anything tries to come into the cave, kill it.  Yes?”  Rumarin nodded mutely, his stomach in knots.  Inigo smiled.  “Good.  Wish me luck, my friend.”  Without waiting for a reply, Inigo lit a torch from the campfire and ran out into the gale, the light slowing receding into the white.

Rumarin was on his own.

 

* * *

 

This was ridiculous.  He could barely manage to keep so much as five stones in the air at once.  Between the distractions of the howling wind, the snapping campfire, and the worry burrowing through his gut, Rumarin could only sustain a beginner’s criss-cross juggle for no more than thirty seconds without dropping a stone and stopping entirely (whereupon he would lay two fingertips across Gawain’s still lips, just to feel the warm breath there and know that he still lived).  Usually, practicing the old troubadour tricks like juggling, coin rolling, and knife tossing served to calm him, or at least distract him from whatever thoughts preyed on his mind.  But this time, however, the subject of his thoughts lingered, both in his mind and in the same room, so his efforts at distraction were ultimately thwarted.

“Right,” he said aloud, rubbing his hands together.  “That’s enough of that.  And I don’t think that you’d be up for a game of Withershins, so I’m fresh out of suggestions.  Any ideas?”

Apart from the wind and the fire (and the wounded man’s breath), there was silence.

“Yes, I thought not.  Not surprised, really.  You never did seem to be very good at recreation.  Little too serious and straight-laced for something as lowbrow as _fun_.”  He glanced over at Gawain, hoping for so much as a frown at his barb, but there was only stony-faced silence.  

Rumarin’s golden brows creased in worry as he laid long fingers again against Gawain’s forehead.  It _was_ warm, warmer than was usual for a human, but was that a fever or just a side effect of his proximity to the fire?  Frown deepening, Rumarin lifted a corner of the snow bear pelt.  Gawain’s pale chest was mottled with faded scars and darkening bruises, but he didn’t seem flushed, and the cloth bandages at his arm and side were still clean.  That was good, Rumarin supposed, pulling the furs over again and tucking them in.  At least, he was pretty sure that was good.

“Maybe something to read, yeah?” he said aloud.  Perhaps if he kept babbling, Gawain would rise from the sleep of near-death just to tell him to shut up.  “There’s got to be something we’ve picked up that’s worth reading.”  Glancing at the mouth of the cave (no trolls or saber cats, but no horses or blue Khajiits either), Rumarin scooted over to their three packs and rummaged through the closest one.  Feeling the spine of a book, he pulled it out and read out the cover.  “ _Response to Bero’s Speech_ , eh?  Sounds boring enough to knock me out as well.  Let’s see...”

He thumbed it open and began at the first page, using his best ringmaster’s voice.

> On the 14th of Last Seed, an illusionist by the name of Berevar Bero gave a very ignorant speech at the Chantry of Julianos in the Imperial City.  As ignorant speeches are hardly uncommon, there was no reason to respond to it.  Unfortunately, he has since had the speech privately printed as "Bero's Speech to the Battlemages," and it's received some small, undeserved attention in academic circles.  Let us put his misconceptions to rest.

"Oh.   _Mages_ ,” Rumarin sneered.  “Bully for us.”  He cleared his throat and continued to read.

> Bero began his lecture with an occasionally factual account of famous Battlemages from Zurin Arctus, Tiber Septim's Imperial Battlemage, to Jagar Tharn, Uriel Septim VII's Imperial Battlemage.  His intent was to show that where it matters, the Battlemage relies on other Schools of Magicka, not the School of Destruction which is supposedly a Battlemage's particular forte.  Allow me first to dispute these so-called historical facts.

"Allow you?  Don’t suppose we can _stop_ you, you self-important..."

> Zurin Arctus did not create the golem Numidium by spells of Mysticism and Conjuration as Bero alleges. The truth is-

Rumarin snapped the book shut.  “The truth is it’s bloody _dull_ , is what it is!  It’s dull and pompous and no one actually cares, except for bloody _mages_ , with their _schools_ and their _chantries_ and their _colleges_.  You know what?  I think I’d rather be eaten by a dragon than listen to a bunch of stuffed-shirt college know-it-alls talk like they’re _better_ than me!”  Frustration rising to a peak, Rumarin threw the book into the cave, hearing it slide down the ice as it vanished in the gloom.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he muttered, embarrassed at his outburst despite the lack of a conscious audience.  He dug around in the second pack and wished for the thousandth time that night that he could actually learn more than two spells, if only to (heal Gawain and) call down lightning to smite horrid books.  “Let’s see, there’s got to be something…”  His hand brushed the leather pouch of potion vials and he pulled it out and opened it, hoping against hope.  Gawain had sealed each vial with a colored wax cap: red for health, blue for magicka, green for stamina, black for poison.  Perhaps they had missed one?  

“Green cap,” he said, fingers shifting deftly through the clinking bottles, “green, green, blue, black, blue, blue, blue, blue, gods, we have a lot of magicka potions, don’t we?  Blue, black, green, blue- hang on a minute!”  His fingers froze as he thought back to earlier that day.

_I think the axe was coated with something that affected my magicka.  I haven’t been able to cast anything since the hit…_

“Magicka!” Rumarin exclaimed, scooping out two handfuls of blue-capped vials.  “You don’t need healing potions, you need magicka!”

Kneeling next to Gawain’s bedroll, Rumarin thumbed the cap off of a vial and slipped his arm under the wounded man’s head.  Gently, gently, he propped up Gawain’s head and shoulders and tipped the vial’s contents past his pale lips.  Watching intently, Rumarin let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding when he saw the unconscious man reflexively swallow the potion.  It had worked.  It had actually _worked_.  One down, four to go.

After the last vial was drained, Rumarin gently, gently laid Gawain back down and covered him back up with the bearskin.  Gawain slept on, and until he (hopefully) woke up with the ability to heal himself, there was little else that Rumarin could do.  Dashing out the dregs of the vials, he sighed wearily before untying and assembling the cooking trellis. 

Tea.  Tea would sort him out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor boys, this just ain't their day. Hope you enjoyed, though! Shouts to crabapple for leaving wicked cool comments; it means a lot to hear back and know that somebody digs what you're digging, you dig? So thanks for that, you make my day! ^_^
> 
> Real life is ramping up, so my schedule is going to be in flux for the next few weeks. I'll do as much as I can, but it may be a longer wait than usual for the next couple of parts. But rest assured, I have plans for our three amigos. Hasty and ill-prepared plans, but plans nonetheless!
> 
> Questions/comments/suggestions, you know the drill! Thanks for reading!


	5. A Fireside Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rumarin (poorly) keeps a secret, Gawain (sort of) cracks a joke, and Inigo (really) has bad timing.

“Still no sign of Inigo or the horses,” Rumarin said aloud, stirring the pot of steaming water over the campfire.  Gawain did not reply, but that had never stopped Rumarin before.  “I’m still cross, you know.  This whole time, you’ve been the storied Dragonborn of myth and legend, and you didn’t once think to mention it?  Maybe I should have guessed, but in my defense, I rather pictured the Dragonborn to be a stonking great Nord barbarian with a bushy blond beard and biceps the size of my head, not some little Breton hunter that runs errands for peasants and helps old ladies across the street.  No offense.”

“None taken.”

“So if you’ll pardon the pun,” he continued, pulling the now-boiling pot off of the fire and adding a heaping handful of dried snowberries and frost mirriam, “it’s not beyond the pale for me to-!”  Rumarin stopped so fast that he nearly choked, whipping around to see bright, lucid and _open_ green eyes.  “You’re awake!” he exclaimed, scooting over to Gawain’s side.  “How do you feel?  Can you cast anything?  Can you heal yourself?”

Wincing at the motion, Gawain freed one hand from under the bearskin, closing his eyes and gesturing.  The warm, golden glow of Restoration magic swirled around, over, and through him, the magic chiming pleasantly as it manifested on the physical plane.  However, the light show seemed to finish more quickly than Rumarin would have liked.  “Well?” he asked impatiently.  “Did it work?  Are you healed?”

“Completely?”  Gawain’s normally-deep voice was a dry, raspy croak.  He cleared his throat.  “Not quite.  But I think I can sit up now.”  Gawain held his hand out to Rumarin with only the faintest tremor.

Rumarin took his hand and elbow, carefully guiding the man into a sitting position.  The bearskin pooled at his waist, allowing the firelight to cast shadows on Gawain’s bare skin.  Rumarin was gratified to see that color had faded from Gawain’s bruises and returned to his face.  Gawain seemed to notice his scrutiny and smiled, clasping his free hand reassuringly over the one he still held.  He was back, and he was fine.  Tension sloughed off of Rumarin like water from a wrung dishrag.

“I made tea,” he said.  “Want some?”  _Oh, yes,_ tea.  _Well done, Rumarin, you fathead.  What a hearty hurrah for the hero of legend, back from the brink of death.  You’d think he’d slain a mudcrab rather than a dragon._

Gawain’s smile widened, showing a moment of teeth.  “Oh _gods,_ yes.”  The smile vanished again as he glanced about.  “Where’s Inigo?”

“Gone to fetch the horses,” Rumarin said casually, busying himself with straining the herbal tea into a couple of pewter mugs.  “They all pulled a runner when Tall, Scaled and Ugly showed up to ruin our day.”  He handed over a still-steaming mug.  “Here.”

“Thank you.”  Gawain wrapped both hands around the mug and sipped gingerly, shuddering.  “And thank you for earlier, as well.  I’m sorry for dragging you into that.  I should have told you before today.”  He fidgeted (actually fidgeted!) with his tea mug.  “I… I’ll understand if you don’t want to travel with us any longer.”

And just like that, any lingering simmers of Rumarin’s irritation fizzled and died.  Gawain looked so sincerely remorseful that holding a grudge just seemed cruel.  “Well, I can’t deny that a word of warning would have been welcome, but when you balance it against my being offered the ability to slay an honest-to-gods _draco giganticus mythendri,_ I feel like I’ve still come out smelling like roses and Colovian brandy.  So consider yourself forgiven, _this_ time.”

“Thank you.”  And gods damn him if he didn’t sound like he meant it.  A few moments passed in relative silence, broken only by the sipping of tea and the crackle of flames, until Rumarin could bear the curiosity no longer.  

“So… why _didn’t_ you tell me?  Not that you _had_ to tell me,” he backpedaled when Gawain’s full mouth creased into a slight frown.  “I’m certain that you had excellent reasons for it.”

“When people know,” Gawain said after a pause.  His usual forthright gaze was suddenly fascinated with the dregs of his tea.  “When they know about what I am, what I can do, it… changes things.  The way they see me.  All of a sudden, I’m not… me anymore.  That’s all covered over by the Dragonborn, and instead they’re seeing all of the things that the Dragonborn is, and expecting all of the things you expect from the Dragonborn, instead of from me.”  He laughed once, without humor.  “Gates of Oblivion, _I_ don’t even know who I am.  I don’t need a hero’s mantle to cover up something I’m trying to uncover in the first place."

“Well, that’s a damn shame,” Rumarin quipped, pushing back against the solemnity, the intimacy, of shared fires and fears.  “After what you did out there, you deserve a hero’s mantle.  You just saved an entire town from a dragon!  That’s got to be worth at least a medal.  A bound medal, so that you can conjure it up at parties.”

“Rumarin.”  And the weight of those big (beautiful) eyes was laid again on Rumarin, making his heart sink.  “You understand what I mean, right?”

“I… I think so,” Rumarin said softly.  “Makes sense.”

Gawain blinked at him for a moment more, looking for something in Rumarin’s painted face.  Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him, and he nodded slightly.  “Good.”

Rumarin looked over, this time meeting Gawain’s gaze and holding it.  There was a pressure in the Altmer’s throat like something heavy was lodged in it, needing to be either swallowed down or forced out. “Listen.  I-”

“Gawain, my friend!  You are awake!”  Startled, both men whipped around to see Inigo’s tall, snow-caked form emerge from the shadows at the mouth of the cave.  He pulled off his hood and shook out his ears, earrings jingling as he did.  “You are feeling better, yes?”

“Much better, yes."  Gawain nodded cordially, as if he _hadn't_ spent the evening with one foot in the grave.  "Did you manage to find all the horses?”

“That I did.”  The Khajiit threw off his cloak, brown bearskin nearly solid white, and dusted thick clumps of snow from his armor.  “They gave me quite a merry chase, but I was able to find them all.  I feared that they would lead me across the Sea of Ghosts before I could catch them!  Ah, thank you, Rumarin!” he said gratefully, accepting the fresh mug of tea that Rumarin handed to him before sitting back on his heels by the fire.  “My heart is glad to see you well, my friend.  You gave us quite a scare!”

“I know, and I’m sorry about that,” Gawain replied.  “But thank you, for helping me out there.  Both of you.”  He looked from Inigo to Rumarin, the Altmer suddenly busy with washing out the tea mugs.  “I owe you my life.”

The cloth in Rumarin’s hands stilled.  “Oh dear, we’re not keeping score, are we?” he moaned theatrically.  “Because that means I’ll have to save your life again for that time you pulled me back from triggering that fire trap in Forsaken Cave, and the time you ran that bandit through just as he was about to cave in my skull, _and_ the time you told me not to order the chicken at the Nightgate Inn.”

Gawain shook his head, but smiled as he did so.  “I don’t think _that_ would have killed you.”

“Hey, you never know at those out-of-the-way places.”  He put the clean mugs back into a nearby pack.  “My point is, we didn’t do anything for you that you haven’t done for us more than once, so don’t go thinking that you owe us anything.”

“I agree with Rumarin, my friend,” Inigo added.  “Saving your life is my privilege and honor, but I do not feel that I have yet repaid my debt to you, nor do I expect to anytime soon.  For the foreseeable future, at least, it would seem that you are stuck with us.”

“ _What_ a hardship,” Gawain said dryly; it seemed that it only took a near-death experience to get the man to crack a joke.  He rubbed his eyes and laid back on the bedroll, groaning softly.  “I think I’ll rest a bit more, though,” he said, pulling the bearskin over himself.

“As will I,” Inigo agreed.  “You should turn in too, Rumarin.  It has been a long day, and I do not think we will need to keep watch this night.  This storm is keeping the beasties at bay.”

“Sounds good to me.”  Rumarin tossed another log onto the fire and crawled over to his own bedroll, rolling it out and nearly collapsing onto it, his back to the campfire.  He closed his eyes, hearing Inigo shed his armor and do the same, and let out a sigh.  The day was finally over, and he’d be glad to put it behind him.

He was just about to drift off to sleep when he heard Gawain’s voice, barely audible over the crackle of campfire flames.  “Rumarin?” he said, low and deep.  “How did I get my magicka reserves back?  I thought that the poison would block it up until I could be healed.”

 _Ah.  That._   “Dunno,” Rumarin whispered back casually, or as least casually as he could be while whispering.  “You ate that dragon’s soul, didn’t you?  Maybe he had some magicka to spare.”

“... I suppose that would make sense.”

“Wouldn’t it just.”  Rumarin shifted in his bedroll, uncomfortable with the sudden scrutiny.  “Now go to sleep, hero.  _Some_ of us need our beauty rest.  Goodnight.”

And, facing the wall as he was, Rumarin failed to see a pale hand slip out from under Gawain’s bearskin blanket, fingers softly tracing over an empty potion vial and a few shards of blue wax on the cave’s stone floor. 

“Goodnight, Rumarin.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the next part!  Apologies for the delay (and for Inigo's terrible sense of dramatic timing), but at least they're all relatively okay.  Also, a big thank you to Interesting NPCs modder Kris Takahashi for the mention on his blog!  Since you enjoy character art (and since I can't draw for beans), enjoy this picture of our three amigos as they go adventuring.
> 
> [Looking for Loot in All the Wrong Places](http://oi62.tinypic.com/21np9ja.jpg)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!  Tune in next time, folks, when our three amigos seek out the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller and discover a good way to end a bad day.  Same dragon time, same dragon channel!
> 
>  


	6. In Vino, Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a failed venture in a Nord ruin, our heroes indulge in a little hard-earned relaxation while Rumarin uncovers some hidden knowledge. Unfortunately for him, it isn't the sort of knowledge found on ancient word walls.

When compared to all of his days (well, the ones he could remember), Gawain Kingsfoil was having the worst day of his life.

This day was worse than the day he had woken up in that temple near the Jerall Mountains with a throbbing in his skull and a priestess asking for his name, and finding himself unable to answer her.  Only a note about a job of some sort, found in his bloodied shirt and addressed to “Gawain Kingsfoil,” gave any clue against the blank slate that was now his memory.

It was worse than the day that he encountered a blue Khajiit in the dungeons of Riften and learned that, not only had Gawain been a mercenary, a ruthless sellsword who killed for gold, but the reason for his memory loss was due to Inigo, his skooma-addled friend and comrade, _shooting him in the head_ and leaving him in a ditch to _die,_ meaning to make off with his share of the bounty.  He had accepted Inigo’s remorseful apologies as well as his pledge to repay his blood debt to Gawain (or die trying); true to his word, the Khajiit had been clean and sober ever since.  But despite all of this, and despite Gawain’s best efforts, the sting of betrayal lingered in every memory he lacked.

It was worse than the day he first killed a dragon, running past the burnt carcass of Whiterun’s Western Watchtower to strike the final blow at the dragon’s throat, eyes burning with the sting of deadly smoke, ears burning with the cries of dying men.  The day that thundering streams of heat and light poured into him from the dragon’s flaking corpse, imbuing him with _life_ and _power_ and a knowledge that he never imagined possible.  The day that everything changed.

It was worse than the day he had stumbled out of High Hrothgar onto the Throat of the World, the heavy, heavy yoke of Destiny forcing him to his knees in the snow, forcing him to vomit up bile and fear and the terrible epiphany that he, he himself, was the Dragonborn, the only one who could save all of Skyrim from a plague of dragons.  Dragons.   _Plural._  The thought paralyzed him.  If not for Inigo pulling him to his feet and practically frog-marching him back down the Seven Thousand Steps (gods bless his furry hide), Gawain might have frozen to death outside the monastery with nothing to his name but unanswered questions and the shortest tale of heroism in all of Tamriel.

No, this day was worse than all of those days, because after weeks of riding and questing and fighting, of slaying sabre cats and frost trolls and more than one dragon, after enduring more pain and coming closer to death than he had ever thought possible, this was the day he stomped his way through the salt marshes of Hjaalmarch with soggy boots and sodden feet, fighting and Thu’um-ing his way through bandits and necromancers and giant frostbite spiders that always, _always_ made his flesh crawl. 

This was the day that he and his two companions plumbed the depths of Ustengrav, where he scorched his feet on fire traps, slashed his armor on swinging pendulum blades, banged his face (more than once) as he Whirlwind Sprint-ed into a puzzle gate that always seemed to close just half a second before he reached it, before finally, _finally,_ making his way to the grand inner chamber, untouched by man, mer, or beast for centuries.  This was the day that, tired and hungry, cold and bruised, foot- and saddle-sore, he stepped up to the raised pedestal to claim the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, first of the Greybeards, master of the Way of the Voice, and found…

A note.

A note in place of the Horn.  A note that told him to go to _Riverwood,_ halfway across the damned country.  A _note_ that could have just been sent to him via a bloody _courier,_ rather than forcing him to endure all of _this,_ all of _this_ day, for nothing!

_Nothing!_

Gawain dropped the note on the stone floor, utterly, frighteningly still. 

Behind him, Rumarin and Inigo exchanged nervous glances.  “My friend,” Inigo began, the soul of tact.  “Are you al-!”  He and Rumarin both jumped backwards as Gawain whirled about and silently stomped back the way they came, making for the large iron doors at the entrance to the chamber.  Rumarin made to follow, but Inigo stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.  “Let us wait here,” he said.  “I do not believe that he will go far, but... I think that he may need a moment to himself.”

As if to prove his words, no sooner did the doors clang shut before they heard Gawain shouting, not a dragon Shout with a word of power, but the full-throated, wordless scream of a frustrated mortal at the end of his rope.

“You may have a point,” Rumarin agreed.  Turning back to the empty pedestal, Rumarin spied the mysterious note and snatched it up, torn between a concern for Gawain (and his sanity) and a burning curiosity.  As with most adventurers, curiosity won out.

“ _Dragonborn,_ ” Rumarin read aloud, Inigo reading along by his shoulder, “ _I need to speak to you. Urgently.  Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you.  Signed, a friend._  So, this ‘friend’ has taken the precious artifact that we need and is hiding out over in Riverwood, just waiting for us to show up and get it.  Well, that doesn’t sound like a trap at all!”

“It does seem rather ominous,” Inigo agreed.  “We shall have to be on our guard.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Rumarin asked, tucking the note away in his pack and stretching.  “There doesn’t seem to be any point in hanging around and gathering dust like the rest of the antiques.  If we leave now, we might be able to make it to Morthal before dark.”

**“FUS RO!”**

From the antechamber, there was the sound of a mighty rush of wind, and of quite a few works of ancient Nordic pottery shattering into tiny, satisfying pieces.

“...why don’t we give him a few more minutes?” Inigo suggested.

“Yes,” Rumarin replied, nodding. “Let’s.”

 

* * *

 

The door to Morthal’s inn slammed shut behind the three bedraggled travelers, causing local heads to rise from their contemplation of local ale in local mugs.  “Come on in,” said the Redguard woman behind the bar, voice raised in mild surprise.  “Always good to see paying customers.  Don’t get many of those these days.”

“Really?  I can’t imagine why,” Rumarin said under his breath as he wrung out the hem of his robe, soaked from their slog through the salt marshes.  Inigo chuckled to himself as he shrugged out of his linen cloak. 

Gawain, meanwhile, stomped his way to the bar, tension running like wires through his small and sodden frame.  “Evening,” he growled.

“Likewise.”  The innkeeper seemed to take his foul temper in stride.  “Welcome to the Moorside Inn.  I’m Jonna, I run the place.  What can I get you?”

Gawain pulled a coin purse from his belt and dropped it on the counter with a heavy clink.  “Room for the night, spare beds, three bowls of whatever’s hot, a bottle of whatever’s strongest, and a _bath._ ”  Jonna spilled the septims out into a dark hand, counting swiftly.  Gawain sighed, shoulders drooping.  “If there isn’t enough, we have some gems and potions for trade.  Or you can take away one of the meals.”

“No, no.”  Jonna smiled at him.  “You’ve got enough for food and lodging.  We don’t do baths, though.”

“...you don’t do baths,” he echoed flatly, eyes sliding shut.

Jonna cinched the purse closed.  “Not here.  You’ll want the bathhouse for that.”

“Right.  Wait.”  Gawain stared at the innkeeper, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline.  “Morthal has a _bathhouse?”_

“Sure.”  Bending down, Jonna tucked the purse under the bar and fished around for clean mugs.  “Built into some kind of Dwarven ruin buried under the town.  It’s the building across the way from here.  Although, if you still want to sell off some gems, my brother Falion is always-”  Placing three mugs on the bartop, Jonna found that her audience had vanished with only an abandoned backpack and a closing door to mark his exit.  She raised a single eyebrow.  “Single-minded fella, isn’t he?”

“In my friend’s defense, it has been a rather long day,” Inigo said, stepping up to claim Gawain’s abandoned pack.

“Well, if you want to catch him up, you’re free to leave your things in your room.  It’ll be a while before I’ll have any food ready, anyways.”

“Sounds as good as anything else,” Rumarin said, dropping his hem in defeat.

Jonna smiled.  After such a long time, it was good to have guests again.  “I’ll show you to your room.  Right this way.”

 

* * *

 

“You’d be with the little fella, then?”

Warm, damp heat encased Rumarin like a soggy down blanket as he closed the thick wooden door behind him.  “Pardon?” he asked the woman addressing them, raising his voice to be heard above the steady clanking and chugging of what looked to be a rigging of Dwemer pumps at the far end of the room.

“That nice little Breton fella.”  The sturdy, graying woman tucked what appeared to be a handful of amethysts into her ample bodice.  “He a friend of yours?”

“That he is,” Inigo replied.  “Have you seen him recently?”

“He’s downstairs.”  She nodded at a long and surprisingly deep flight of stairs to her side.  “Told me you might be coming.  Don’t worry, you’re all paid up.  But where are my manners?”  She smiled broadly, displaying a gap in her teeth.  “I’m Daphne Strong-Arm, proprietor of the Purespring Bathhouse.  Ever been here before?”

“I’m afraid not,” Inigo said, inclining his furry head in a short bow.  Rumarin just shook his head in response.

“Well, it’s fairly simple,” Daphne said, handing them each a thick, clean towel from a woven basket before hoisting it onto her hip.  “Bathing pool, showers and steam rooms are downstairs.  Leave your clothes to be washed in one of the wicker bins and your gear in the wardrobes.  Make sure you shower- and wash, mind you!- before you enter the bathing pool.  If you need anything else, ask me or one of my girls.  Speaking of, what’re you drinking?”

Rumarin’s head was spinning; he wasn’t sure if it was from the steam, the laundry soap, or whatever cloying scent Ms. Strong-Arm favored as a perfume.  “Er, what’s on the menu?”

Daphne grinned broadly again.  “We’ve got Hammerfell rum with lemon and cane sugar, or a spiced Cyrodiil wine.  If you like sweet, try the rum.  If you want something with a bit more… body…”  She ran her eyes blatantly up and down Rumarin, as if his robes had been conjured constructs suddenly summoned back to Oblivion.  “Then try the wine.”

“I… think I’ll go with the rum,” Rumarin said, leaning slightly back with a shaky smile to match Daphne’s frown, folded towel held to his chest like a shield.

“Do you have tea?” Inigo asked.  At the proprietor’s nod, he continued, “Then I would like a mug of tea, please.  With milk and honey, if you have it.”

“I think we can manage.”  Hiking the basket higher onto her hip, Daphne headed behind the wheezing machinery to what seemed like a laundry room.  “Head on down, boys.  I’ll let the girls in the kitchen know your orders.  Enjoy yourselves, now!”

Rumarin and Inigo traded brief glances before hurrying down the long flight of stairs to the lower door, eager to be wherever Daphne and her innuendo was not.

The heat was still present in the subterranean chamber, but diffused as it was over the larger space, it felt like a breath of fresh air to Rumarin.  High-strung oil lamps and low bronzed braziers illuminated the ancient geometrical stonework that was the calling card of the Dwemer, interspersed and contrasted with the organic and ephemeral blooms of salt ferns spilling out of glazed clay pots.  Right before the door was an antechamber of sorts, with benches, wardrobes and wicker baskets beckoning the traveler to cast off, if not their cares, then at least their clothes.  Thrilled at the prospect of clean laundry to match clean bodies, Inigo and Rumarin both turned out their pockets, pouches and boots into an empty wardrobe before shucking the rest of their clothes into a wicker bin, wrapping Daphne’s thick towels around themselves as they added their loincloths to the laundry pile.

As they turned to the right hallway, following a sign reading _SHOWERS AND STEAM ROOMS,_ a passing young Nord woman holding a silver tray winked at them.  Inigo turned his head as she passed, smiling appreciatively at her swaying hips.  “I think I could get used to this place, my friend.”  For a moment, he almost sounded like he was purring.  “People in Morthal know how to relax in style.”

Rumarin hiked his towel slightly higher, twisting the cloth in his fist.  “I suppose,” he replied airily.  “I mean, when you spend your entire life fending off gnats and chaurus and all manner of fungi, you've got to have at least something to look forward to, right?  Like-”

Whatever comparison Rumarin had been about to make died in his throat as they entered the shower room.  Six exposed Dwemer pipes, bent and diverted, spilled steaming water out onto the tiled floor and down the drainage grates set into it.  One of the shower pipes, however, was already occupied.

Gawain stood beneath a Dwemer pipe, water pouring artlessly over his unbraided hair and bare body.  Faded white scars were rendered invisible by the flow of water over his flesh, leaving the newer ones at his arm and side to stand out, the recently-healed flesh still pink and shiny with scar tissue.  In the space of a second, Rumarin took in the sight of his adventuring companion, broad shoulders and hardened muscles flexing as he scrubbed himself down, shapely ass slick with soapsuds, head thrown back to catch the spray and expose his pale, lovely neck, and felt his mouth go dry.  A sharp, sudden tug of lust pulled hard at Rumarin’s core, heat blossoming from his belly into his chest and throat, setting his face aflame.  He’d tried to deny it for weeks now, tried to joke and deflect and rationalize it all away, but he couldn’t lie to himself any longer.  Gawain Kingsfoil was a _beautiful_ man, and by the Divines, Rumarin wanted him.

And that, he concluded with a sinking feeling in his chest, was the worst part.

“Did you hear?”  Gawain’s voice was as excited as Rumarin had ever heard, the man’s face split in a teeth-baring, honest-to-gods grin.  “They do _laundry!”_

“So we’ve been told.”  Hastily turning his back to Gawain, Rumarin stepped up to one of the free shower pipes.  He casually cast aside the towel about his waist and stepped under the spray, seemingly unconcerned about his sudden nakedness.  (And why would he be?  After all, adventuring in a party didn’t easily lend itself to privacy or modesty.  And he was _not_ blushing, thank you _very_ much.)

“You know,” Inigo said from under the pipe beside Gawain, “for someone that enjoys being clean as much as you do, I sometimes wonder if you are in the wrong profession.”

“I’ll say,” Rumarin echoed, glad to latch on to the distraction.  “Neither gold nor gems nor glory sways the mighty hero, but offer him a good scrub and some fresh linens and he’ll brave whatever dungeon you like.”

“I never meant to live the hero’s life,” Gawain said, stepping out of the water’s spray and wringing out his dark hair, stray droplets of water coursing over his pale, smooth skin.  (Or rather, Rumarin _assumed_ that was so, since the mer did not turn around and look at all.)  “At least, I don’t think I did.”  Under the rush of water in his pointed ears, Rumarin thought he heard Gawain sigh.  “See you both at the bath, yeah?”

Rumarin absently mmm-hmm’d, being far, _far_ too busy soaping a washrag to notice Gawain damp footsteps receding down the hall.  (He was likewise too busy to notice Inigo giving him an odd look through the mass of bubbles that his muttonchop whiskers had become.)  But after those unnoticed footsteps receded into silence, Rumarin allowed himself a brief, quiet groan.

This?  This could be a problem.

 

* * *

 

The underground bathing chamber was large and lofty, a wide, waist-deep pool ringed with submerged stone Dwemer benches.  Golden light from candles and braziers glittered over the surface of the warm, fragrant water, steam gently wafting up to the high ceilings.  Whatever purpose this room had once served for the Dwarves, it had likely not included the large fountain in the center, water pouring from the bronze flower that the statue of divine Dibella held raised above Her head.

They weren’t the only ones there, Rumarin noted as he slid into the pool, flinging his towel clear at the last moment.  Three small groups of Nords, men and women both, were dotted around the pool in clusters, talking and laughing without any indication of embarrassment.  This was apparently routine for the residents of Morthal, and the lack of scrutiny made Rumarin feel momentarily relieved.

“Not a bad end to the day, huh?”  Gawain’s voice to his left popped his relief like a bubble.  The man sat beside him, close enough to touch if Rumarin stretched out his hand.  He sipped from his goblet of spiced wine and sighed.  “Doesn’t make up for the spiders, but it’s a start.”

“I rather enjoy killing spiders,” Inigo said from Gawain’s left side, splashing water on his face and rubbing his whiskers.  “I like the crunching sound they make when you hit them.  I take it that you do not enjoy it as well, my friend?”

Gawain darted a sidelong gaze at Rumarin, sounding oddly hesitant.  “Not really.  Spiders… bother me, actually.” 

He’s _embarrassed_ , Rumarin realized.  Gawain Kingsfoil, the mighty Dragonborn who went charging after a mythical beast without hesitation, was afraid of _spiders?_  Granted, spiders that _were_ large enough to take down a goat, but still not a patch on a dragon.  That was… it was adorable, actually.

“I understand,” Inigo nodded, smiling reassuringly.  “In the future, send any spiders you do not want to deal with my way.  I will take care of them, with _pleasure.”_

“I’ll remember that.”  Gawain sipped at his wine again, the clean, strong lines of his neck glistening with water and sweat, drawing Rumarin’s eyes like iron to a lodestone.  Unfortunately, that was when he looked over at Rumarin and frowned.  “You alright?  You look a little flushed.”

“Me?”  Rumarin blinked, dry-swallowing, mentally flailing for an appropriate excuse.  “No, I- I’m just thirsty, that’s all.  And despite being surrounded by water on all sides, I doubt I’m quite that desperate.”  This was _definitely_ a problem.

“Well, you’re in luck, then.”  Gawain pointed with his free hand at the blonde young Nord woman emerging from the darkness of the hallway with a laden tray.  Salvation!  Rumarin silently thanked all of the Divines (that he could remember off of the top of his head) for the diversion.

“Right, who had the tea?” the young woman asked, shifting the tray onto his ample hip.

“That would be me,” Inigo said, accepting the mug from his seat.  “However, I fear that I am without pockets at the moment.”

“No worries,” she replied, handing a pewter goblet to Rumarin; this would be Hammerfell rum, then.  “Daphne said that you’re all paid up.”

“For the drink, perhaps,” Inigo said, raising an eyebrow and curving a corner of his whiskered mouth, “but to see such loveliness is a rare and treasured occurrence, and I would like to return a fraction of its value in kind.”

“Oh, go on!”  The lass waved her now-empty tray at Inigo and walked away, but not before giving a smiling glance over her shoulder and an extra wiggle to her ample hips.  Inigo raised his mug in salute as she disappeared through the doorway.

“You cad,” Gawain chided in mock admonishment, splashing his friend with a wave of his hand.

“Not at all!” Inigo protested.  “I call them as I see them, my friend.”

Gawain actually laughed at that, his head rolling back to rest against the stone rim of the pool.  The glint of mirthful teeth and the shadows gathered in his collarbone made Rumarin’s innards twist, and he wasn’t sure if he disliked the sensation.  To distract himself, he took a large swig from his goblet.  And then another, humming in appreciation.  The rum was cold, sweet and tart at the same time, and the cool burn coursing down his throat refreshed him, blooming in his (empty) stomach with a smolder, loosening his muscles and untangling the knot in his gut.  Rumarin leaned back against the cool stone and sighed contentedly.

Oh yes.  He was feeling _much_ better now.

“Why’d you get tea?” he called at Inigo after a few minutes of silence, turning in his seat to prop an elbow onto the ledge of the pool.  “I mean, the rum’s… very nice.”   _And strong,_ he thought dimly, but the notion left as swiftly as it came.

“I am not a heavy drinker,” Inigo replied easily.  “I prefer to keep a clear head these days.  Violence is my only remaining vice.”

“Well, we all have our little vices.”  Rumarin took another swallow of the rum, relishing the cold-hot sensation on his tongue.  The rum had been a _brilliant_ idea.  All of his anxieties and fears and inhibitions seemed to drift away, troubling him no further.  Instead, he just felt pleasantly loose and relaxed.  And warm.  “I used to know this Dunmer mage.  Very heroic.  Every now and then, though, he’d wear a thief’s costume.”   _And thief or not, he was surprisingly… dexterous._  Rumarin’s lips curled warmly at the memory, a faint whisper of lust settling again into his belly.  He nudged Gawain’s bare (warm) shoulder with his knuckles.  “I wonder what _your_ vice is.” 

The small part of Rumarin’s mind that was unaffected by strong liquor on an empty stomach shrieked at him to shut up, that this was going to end terribly for everyone involved.  Rumarin ignored it.

Gawain’s (lovely) green eyes widened, then seemed to darken as he frowned.  “Your guess is as good as mine,” he replied.

Well, that wouldn’t do.  Rumarin had been making a joke, trying to evoke that peal of carefree laughter again, to see what it did to his stomach this time.  “Oh?  Well, my guess involved bear wrestling, or a different sort of wrestling altogether with someone clawed.  Your scars,” he clarified at Gawain’s raised eyebrow, pointing at the marks on Gawain’s face.  “Surely there must be a story behind those.”

“Oh.”  Gawain’s fingertips skated briefly over the claw marks on his left cheek before scratching self-consciously at his neat beard.  “I don’t know what happened.”

Rumarin felt a little offended, honestly.  “Look, if you don’t want to tell me, you can just say so.  You don’t have to lie about it.”

“I’m not!” Gawain insisted.  “I really don’t know how it happened.  I don’t know anything that happened prior to about four months ago.”

“You mean you can’t remember?  Anything?”

“Not a thing,  Head injuries are like that, sometimes.  I know that it’s not a recent scar, but apart from that…”  The Breton gave an eloquent shrug.

“Ah.”  Rumarin took another drink and popped his lips contemplatively.  “And here I thought that before, when you were talking about uncovering who you really are, that you were just playing the brooding hero.”

“Afraid not,” Gawain replied, tapping his own goblet against Rumarin’s with a wry twist to his lips.  “As far as I can tell, I am an unfortunately literal man.”  Green eyes met gold in the candles' glow, making something that was decidedly not lust swell in Rumarin’s chest.

“But there are other things we can tell, yes?”  At the sound of Inigo’s voice, whatever had swelled in Rumarin’s chest suddenly deflated, drawing him back into uncomfortable awareness of his situation.  His half-submerged, more-than-half-drunk, and completely naked situation.  His more-than-a-little-bit turned on situation.   _Oh, gods help me._

“Other things?” Gawain asked, turning his head, the moment gone.

“Yes, my friend.”  Inigo set his mug on the edge of the pool.  “You have many skills and talents that, with one notable exception, did not spring up overnight.  It may not tell us any specifics, but how you are doing on our adventures could help you piece together the sort of man you used to be.”

“I’ll bite.”  Gawain drained the dregs of his wine, turning on the stone bench to face the Khajiit (and leading Rumarin's eyes to trace down his the ridges of his spine beneath his smooth, glistening skin _oh gods, I have to get out of here)._  “How do you you think I’m doing?”

“You want my assessment?” Inigo asked.  “I must warn you, I do not beat around the bush.  Or on it, for that matter.  There are usually much better things around to beat, like spiders.”

Gawain winced slightly at the mention.  “Just give me whatever comes to mind.”

“Okay.”  Inigo scratched his chin, orange eyes squinting at his friend.  “You have some skill with one-handed weapons, and are a good shot with your bow.  Not a patch on me, of course, but nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“But we already knew I used to be a sellsword,” Gawain frowned.  “That’s how we met.”

They were distracted, Rumarin realized.  This could be his chance to make a break for it, before liquor and banter and Falkreath-green eyes coaxed him into ruining a good thing beyond repair.  Dagon it, where did he put his towel?

“Good point,” said Inigo.  “But you are also a very skilled craftsman.  Not just with weapons and armor, but with finer things like furs, cloaks and jewels.  You have a way with a forge that only comes after a lifetime of practice at your craft.”

“That’s true.”  Gawain regarded his hands seriously, tracing his fingers along the calluses as if he’d never noticed them before (and perhaps he hadn’t).  “Maybe I used to be a smith?”

“Or a smith’s apprentice,” Inigo concurred.  “Or with a close relative who worked a smithy.  But that isn’t the only possibility.  You also have an affinity for magic, as well.”

Gawain waved a dismissive hand.  “Only a little enchanting and healing magic, maybe some fire as well, but that’s nothing special.  Lots of people can do that.”

But seriously, where the _hell_ was his towel?!

“You do not have much of a temper,” Inigo added.  “You are rational and diplomatic.  More often than not, you are polite and sincere.  When attempting a task, you believe in an all-or-nothing approach.”

“Nothing noteworthy there, as far as backgrounds go.”

“True, but you also do not care much for politics.  That, I believe, is noteworthy for a Breton.”

“Fair enough,” Gawain shrugged, a bit abashed.

There it was!  That serving girl must have kicked it across the walkway!  Slowly, silently, Rumarin inched his way out of the water, stretching his arm as far as he could.   _Almost... got it…_

“What about you?” Gawain asked, shifting around.  “What do you-”  He stopped short suddenly, just as Rumarin realized that his efforts to reach the distant towel had raised his ass completely out of the water (and into candle-lit view).

 _Too late for tact now,_ Rumarin decided, lunging the rest of the way and snatching up the errant piece of fabric.  As if by magic (and wasn’t that rich), the High Elf was suddenly standing, towel crossed tightly about his midsection.  “Sorry!” he said, stumbling a bit at the sudden altitude.  “Sorry, I-I was just about to say that I’m awfully knackered and absolutely famished, and I think I’m going to head back to the inn and turn in early.”

“Are you feeling ill?” Inigo asked, looking at him with concern.  "Too much to drink?"  Gawain didn’t look at anything, head bowed as he splashed water onto his (suddenly red) face.

“No!” Rumarin’s voice cracked in insistence.  “Nonono, just a little overheated.  And tired!  But yes, you stay here, both of you stay here, and enjoy this for as long as you can.  Might not get this opportunity in the near future, right?”

“I think you are right,” Inigo nodded.  “Life is short, my friend, and too precious to waste.  We must make the most of every opportunity while we can.”

“Right.”  Rumarin blinked, and blinked again.  “Right, well, good night!”  

With that, he spun on heel (or more accurately, wobbled) and headed down the hall to the dressing area.  He didn’t see Gawain bite his bottom lip as he ran his hands through his dark hair, or hear Inigo sigh as he shook his head, because he didn’t once look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! I spent a lot of the past two weeks prepping for a convention, which I then missed due to a terrible chest cold (so I kind of know how Gawain feels at this point). For the curious, the bathhouse in Morthal is actually a feature added by missjennabee's [Expanded Towns and Cities](http://www.nexusmods.com/skyrim/mods/13608/?), which I can't recommend more highly. This chapter was damnably hard to write, probably due to Rumarin dragging his heels the entire way, but I hope that it satisfies nevertheless. I hope to have some more meaty action bits in the next part, too. Thanks again to crabapple and Potato_Being, your comments keep me going! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Tune in next time as Gawain plays a deadly game of cat and mouse at the Thalmor Embassy! But will he be heading into danger alone? Will Rumarin and Inigo have to deal with danger of their own? Will Delphine get the punch in the face that she so desperately deserves? Find out next time, Dovahkateers, same dragon time, same dragon channel!


End file.
